


Shadows Settle In The Place That You Left

by bottlefame_brewglory



Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: F/M, Light Angst, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-08
Updated: 2016-04-08
Packaged: 2018-06-01 00:55:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6494476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bottlefame_brewglory/pseuds/bottlefame_brewglory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set after season 3, episode 17.</p>
<p>Liz has been kidnapped and Red is attempting to deal with the aftermath and all that entails.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shadows Settle In The Place That You Left

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so I haven’t actually seen Episode 17, but there is a tonne of speculation that Liz gets kidnapped in Episode 18, which is where, all credit to gregwillray, this idea was born. Also, sidenote, I know fuck all about children, so apologies for any mistakes.

Three Weeks.

It has been three weeks.

Three weeks since Ressler murmured words of consolation, of promise, his hand spreading warmth between Red’s shoulder blades, though his fingertips trembled, his voice shaking.

_We’ll get her back_.

Three weeks since a jacket, cheap and emblazoned with the sickly yellow logo of the FBI, had been draped over him, to ward off the shock, to stop the tremors that shuddered through his body. It is still crumpled in a heap in the corner of his room, untouched.

Three weeks since Tom Keen had died. He’d been gunned down, _finally_ succumbing to his injuries, by Solomon’s men as they breached the ambulance, as they took _her_.

It has been three weeks and Lizzie is still missing.

Three weeks isn’t long enough for her caesarean wound to have healed. It would be infected by now if she hasn’t received medical attention, it may very well be poisoning her bloodstream, killing her slowly. She might be running out of time and Red _can’t find her_.

It has been three weeks and Lizzie’s child is _beautiful_.

Her hair, thick and soft, is as dark as her mother’s and her blue eyes just as piercing, as _knowing_. She has cheeks that are as round as apples, dusted with pink, and her lips, a delicate cupids bow. With her tiny fingers clenched shut, she gurgles happily on his lap, wriggling and sucking hungrily on the bottle he so delicately tilts.

Kate has been the one running supplies, buying nappies, formula, everything Lizzie’s little girl needs.

Dembe has been the one hunting, tracking down men and women with connections to Solomon, hunting leads to Lizzie’s whereabouts, doing everything that Red can’t.

Red has been babysitting, even though his fingers itch for a trigger, the twitch beneath his eye frantic as tension and fear thrums beneath his skin, scours through his bloodstream. At night he is restless, his mind a tumultuous stream of thoughts, of horrifying images his mind conjures. But unlike the days before, the days where he and Lizzie would argue and she was still _here_ , he doesn’t have to wait for the night to drag through until morning. The baby girl normally wakes at two, needing another feed, cooing up at him from her crib, until he scoops her into his arms, holds her close.

Tom is dead and there is no one else.

So without hesitation, without thought, Red cares for Liz's daughter like she is his own, entrusts her safety with no one else, keeps her by his side at all times, because ultimately, that is what Liz would want, her child to be safe, protected. And Red _will_ protect this innocent child, will protect her until her mother is _home_ and then keep protecting her, _keep_ protecting _them_ until his last breath.

“Are you finished, sweetheart?” He murmurs quietly, taking away the bottle even as she begins to complain, scrunching up her nose, giving cries of protest. Standing, he holds her to his chest, pats at her back, bounces at his knees. The evening light creeps over the timber floors that creak beneath him as he paces, doing the dance all parents know so well.

He hasn’t named her. Lizzie can decide when she comes home.

He hasn’t named her, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t have a list of options available for Lizzie to choose from.

Kate has run a bath, is testing the temperature of the water as Red approaches, baby curled into his chest, a burp escaping her tiny form. He smiles in triumph, holds her face up to his, brushes his nose across her cheek, feeling the softness of her skin, so perfect, no sign of milk rash. It is when he places her back against her shoulder that she vomits onto the lapels of his jacket, a half-hearted cough that smells immediately.

With a grimace, because this is one of his _favourite_ suits, he accepts the rag that Kate offers him, mops at his jacket as the baby gurgles to him, happy and content, completely unaffected even as part of her dinner dribbles down her chin, a mixture of milk and drool. Dabbing at her face, wiping away the mess, he laughs at her, the state she is in.

He had never known Lizzie when she was this age, entirely helpless. Even as a four year old she had been fierce and determined.

Kate is better at undressing and dressing the little one. Whenever Red tries, both he and the baby end up pink with exertion and greatly disgruntled. So he waits patiently, as Kate efficiently strips her, dabbing at his suit, ignoring the smell. Before he is passed the baby, he rolls up his shirtsleeves, exposes his forearms to the dying light, the sprinkling of hair across his skin glinting golden.

She loves baths, little limbs falling lax as the water laps over her bare skin. Her head is cradled in his hand, wisps of hair fanning between his fingers tips as he gently rubs a cloth over her pink flesh. With chubby legs she feebly kicks at the water, occasionally wriggling and causing Red to slosh water over himself as he tries to balance her.

It is different from the first bath he had given her, only a few days old, his fingers still trembling from the day’s events. He had washed off the blood, _Lizzie’s_ blood, only minutes before, the red caked beneath his fingertips. And then Kate had passed the child to him, so stern, steadying him with her firm tone and unwavering gaze. Each time he had closed his eyes, blinked, he could see Lizzie’s staring back at him, so _blue_ and wide with fear. When they opened he could see those same eyes peering up at him, trusting and innocent; the eyes of a child that knew no better.

He swallows past the memory, scoops her out of the water and into the fluffy towel that is waiting. It isn’t fair that he is accumulating these moments with Lizzie’s child; stealing the one thing that had meant so _much_ to the woman he cares so deeply for, the woman he _loves_.

There are many things Red has done in his life, dark and heinous crimes that have blackened his soul, things that he cannot be redeemed from, and yet, his actions over these past weeks, caring for Lizzie’s child, they feel  _unforgivable_. He has taken so much from her, and continues to do so. She has missed the first three weeks of her child’s life, has been separated from her daughter practically after giving birth. He should have prevented it, should have kept her safe, like he had _promised_.

“Come here,” Red croons as he rubs at the damp flesh, the mussed hair, his voice so tender, so deep and soothing. With wide eyes she looks up at him, gummy mouth pulled into a little smile, gurgles escaping her even as she rubs at her eyes, her cheeks turning red as drowsiness drags at her.

Passing her off and waiting for Kate to dress her, he watches as the older woman’s nimble fingers zip up the onesie, the soft cotton rustling in the silence. And then when she is given back he whispers,

“Let’s get you to bed, sweetheart.”

He doesn’t have to wonder if Lizzie would disapprove of the way he rocks her child to sleep, cuddles her close to his chest, her ear pressed to his heartbeat. Lizzie would work by the books, would tuck her daughter in her cot, wrapped so perfectly and snugly, with baby monitor nearby, always within reach. She would check on her during allotted time periods, so as not to disturb her sleep, so as to make sure her daughter received the very _best_ of _everything_ , even rest.

She will be an excellent mother, he is certain of it.

Red ignores all that. He whispers and rumbles, presses feather-light kisses over her cheeks and nose, across her forehead. Tells her how precious she is, how _important_ she is. His voice reverberates around the room as he tells her stories, nursery rhymes, until her body falls slack with sleep and her weight is solid and heavy in his arms. Only then will he take her to her crib, pushed alongside his bed, where she is never out of sight, where he can hear her short and soft breaths. He places her little body on the mattress, wrapped securely in a blanket.

“I’ll bring her home to you soon, sweetheart,” he promises, vows, his voice snagging on the words, on the emotion, because talking about Lizzie _hurts_. His fingertips skate over her scalp, through the soft hair so much like her mother’s, as she scrunches her eyes in her sleep.

And then he turns away, breathes raggedly, already thinking ahead, reaching for his phone, Dembe’s number having been dialled. Sitting heavily on his bed, eyes drawn to the cot, he waits until his dearest friend answers.

He needs an update.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so, this doesn’t have that much substance but I just wanted to write Red with the baby and inspire some feels, and hopefully get my muse up and running for my other fic. So I hope you enjoyed it! Let me know what you think!


End file.
